


Fool’s Feast

by Darkrealmist



Series: The House of the Dead Poetry [9]
Category: The House of the Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Animals, Battle, Canon - Video Game, Character Study, Feeding, Free Verse, Gen, Genetics, Gothic, Guns, Horror, Mutants, Poetry, Post-Apocalypse, Prose Poem, Rescue Missions, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Survival Horror, Tarot, Trapped, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 100-500, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: A poem based on the voracity of the Fool, set during The House of the Dead III.





	Fool’s Feast

Fool’s Feast

Author’s Note: Enjoy the poem and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the House of the Dead series.

Summary:

A poem based on the voracity of the Fool, set during _The House of the Dead III_.

* * *

Into the feeding ground of the unlazy sloth that clatters along an animal pen. Rictus-trapped laugh.  
Backs up, ambivalent, down and up the feces-covered Penrose stairs. Chased by gigantism, a gross oaf.  
Four front sprints forward, on all fours. Shotgun rounds inconveniencing unfiled claws.  
Double-jointed reversal. Single-pawed lurch. It lopes to climb and raise a madder foot.  
The rank breath of a decaying flesh eater, undead carnivore and picker of cadaverous bones.  
Rattles the cage, corpse gallery of hanging custodians. Glove-wearers gelatinized by desperate gunshots.  
Crazed mammal experimenters. Psychotic zoology after the collapse of civilization.

Three-toed danger, handicapped, is meta-caution’s beast engirt. What’s that smell?  
Swings maimed, claw over claw, scouting risible slash.  
Lives stolen atavistically, coinage’s profuse bleeding induced. Continue blasting, if the torch be thus relit.  
Gives the cage a second shake, wasting more valuable feed. Bodies plummeting, the descent so steep.

Frustration and bewilderment scrape cacophonous against the grating of the ineffective jungle gym.  
“Oh man…” Lisa could barf. Her pores clench at the scuzzy stink.  
G should be as clinical in self-analysis when stating the obvious.  
The ugly, animate carcass droops triplegic, clinging onto the chain-link fence.  
Fur blown off with successive pumps of their pump-action firearms.  
Unexpected jump force, the hutch dweller exhibits. Scratch of the Devilon-man who crash landed.  
Contumacious insanity snapping one’s vertebrae.

It was twenty-eight, born once, the stench of rancid death.

I cannot walk, for I am lax to crawl. What is it to crawl, but to walk upon functionless limbs?

So overpowering, the odour coming from the ward.


End file.
